


The Burning of Winter Stars

by timeywriter



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Gen, Yule, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5489063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeywriter/pseuds/timeywriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of Yule Běla finds herself drawn to the wild hunt that is led by the gods. In their company is a Jötunn, native to the mountains, by the name of Rübezahl. Together they strike an unlikely friendship on the longest night of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Burning of Winter Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is an original story with characters of my own creation. Tradition Norse names for the gods have been changed to Czech/High German for the sake of the location of the story. Tradition states that the Jötunn Rübezahl is native to the mountains of northern Bohemia (modern Czech Republic).

The sweet, rich smell of pine branches engulfs the large hall and Běla is reminded of the cold winter night she had first allowed a man to lay with her. His large hand had ensconced her small one as he led her to a torch lit clearing that was created to wonder and amaze. And though she would like to think favorably towards the encounter, she knows in her heart that the only part worth remembering was the smell of the pine trees that had canopied them. A slight smirk comes to Běla’s face at this memory, however, she pushes it aside as she sees her father, his burly arms heavily burdened with branches of snowy evergreens, enter the warm hall.

“You’re late with these,” Běla reprimands lightly as she takes several of the branches from her father’s arms into her own. “They should have been brought in yesterday to dry.”

“I still bring them before the Yule log is lit,” her father, Bohumír, responds as he shakes the snow from a branch. “For that I consider my task done early.”

From beside the hearth fire that burns brightly in the middle of the hall Běla hears her mother, Kveta, laugh. Glancing over her shoulder she watches fondly as Kveta sprinkles cloves into the caldron of boiling apples that another woman steadily stirs. The sharp spices from the cider is intoxicating as it mixes with the pine boughs and the sweet holly that was hung beside the mistletoe just this morning.

“I would not say early,” Běla states as she begins to place the pine branches against the door frame. “I would say just in time.”

Bohumír balances the last pine branch along the top shelf that Běla knows she would be unable to reach and offers his daughter a loving smile. Theatrically he places his two massive hands on his lower back and stretches as if he is an elderly man. Though grey flecks her father’s bushy, red beard Běla hardly sees him as old and she chuckles at the sight of him making a show.

“And where are your brothers?” Bohumír asks his daughter as he places a strong arm across her shoulder while they meander toward the hearth and the chattering women who prepare for the festive evening meal. “Shouldn’t you be reprimanding them for their absence instead of lecturing me for taking so long with the evergreens?”

“When they arrive I have every intention to,” Běla states with jovial resolution and a spark in her eyes that shines all the brighter as they warm themselves beside the hearth. The smell of the cider is stronger now as Běla and her father loom over the caldron Kveta has barely left in the past day. Preparations for the feast take a great deal of time and while Kveta always has assistance from Běla and the other women of the village she also has a tendency to put upon herself more tasks than others would deem necessary.

Even with the cold winds that blow across the mounds of snow, Běla still looks forward to the Yule festivities each year. What she does not look forward to is the preparations that are involved that her mother so diligently holds true to. Already she feels a building of anxiety in her throat as she knows her brothers, along with the boars they are meant to be roasting, should be here by now. A raw gnawing begins to eat at her as she listens to the women twitter around the hearth; she wanted to escape their worrying this morning and she knows she will not escape them until a cup of Ilona’s ale is in their hands tonight.

To Běla’s relief the heavy doors of the hall fall open with a mighty burst, aided by the wind that threatens to freeze all in its path, and her two brothers, Alexej and Dalibor, stride in. Between them they carry the carcass of a wild boar strung up by its feet to a wooden beam that bends with the weight of its burden. Though Běla quickly strides forward to shut the mighty doors behind them, not wanting to feel the sting of the wind anymore than she already has had to, Alexej and Dalibor appear as if they have just come in from a lovely stroll. Their cheeks are flushed red and their eyes watery from the wind’s whip, yet their smiles remain as they haul their kill to the welcoming hearth.

“Before you even start,” Alexej begins as his large brown eyes fall upon Běla and see that her mouth is open, poised to speak of their tardiness. “Remember that you have been in this world twenty-four summers and have better things to do with your time than chide us for having fun out in the snow.”

“And you should remember that you are a husband and a father,” Kveta retorts, unsurprising to everyone as her motherly voice sings above the crackling fire. “You should not be dallying in the snow.”

“Fun, the word he used was fun,” Dalibor states, the merriment unable to cease on his round, ruddy face. “And it is something we are all meant to partake in tonight. I find nothing wrong in starting a little early.”

Though Kveta clicks her tongue at her sons, a small smile still comes to her thin lips. A long strand of blonde hair falls from her plait and she moves to push it behind her ear before she turns back to the hearth; her center. “Yes, well, I hope you two find entertainment in skinning this boar and getting it on the fire before sundown.”

“There’s another one out back,” Dalibor adds, nodding toward the doors that will have to open again despite the warmth Běla feels once more. “Care to help me with it, Běla?”

Dalibor, the eldest, gives his sister a wink and she finds herself clicking her tongue, much like her mother, at him. His eyes grow wide in shock and his mouth falls open in amusement. Realizing what she has done Běla clamps her mouth shut, her full lips sealing entirely against ever replicating her mother again. Without a doubt, Běla holds all manner of love and affection for her mother, but she knows she has no desire to follow her mother’s footsteps concerning certain things and the clicking of her tongue in reprimand is one of them.

“I am not dressed for the occasion like Alexej,” Běla replies as they recover from the moment. “I think I will stay nice and warm in here.”

Alexej, so like their father, groans theatrically before he follows Dalibor out once more. Though her brothers are expected to accomplish the task, Běla and Bohumír turn to the boar lying on the floor none the less and together, with silent and practiced movements, they carve away at the boar. Gradually it becomes the fur that will make warm new boots for Dalibor’s eldest son, the bones that will become sewing needles for the women who titter while working, and the meat that will feed the village on this night of ever darkness.

Though they continue to work in silence, even as Alexej and Dalibor bring in the second boar for them to prepare, Běla and Bohumír pay no mind to the rising noise behind them as the hall begins to fill with more people. From across the village and from the farms spread out far and wide in her father’s domain people gradually begin to find the warmth of Kveta’s hearth. The smell of the spiced cider is soon accompanied by the two boars as they roast and crackle upon the fire. It is not until the last cup is put into an eager hand and the loafs of bread are hurriedly brought in by the baker so that the warmth can still be felt as they are torn apart that Běla finally finds a moment to breathe; just as she had anticipated.

There is joy and happiness all around her, it is the time for celebration and companionship. Yet, while everyone else holds a smile upon their face, Běla cannot culminate one herself. Strange, she thinks, I have awaited the arrival of this feast for weeks and yet I cannot summon the joy that comes so easily to the faces around me. Granted, the flush of happiness on many faces has been educed by the strong ale that the old crone, Ilona, brews and by the warmth in the hall that keeps the winter raging outside at bay. Despite this, however, Běla feels a sense of unease toward her own sense of disconnection.

As if knowing the old crone was on her mind, if even for a brief moment, Běla jumps slightly as Ilona places a gnarled and bony hand on her arm. Many place their hands on Běla’s shoulder, for though her brothers and father could rival the thunder god, Donar, in their height, Běla has never stood as tall as even the women of the village. A fairy creature, her mother always called her whenever her brothers would tease about her stature and it always made Běla feel better, believing that she is a magical creature to possess such a small height. Yet Běla does not feel well as the crone Ilona squeezes her arm slightly, as if perturbed that she has not been able to obtain the young woman’s attention just yet.  

“May Wuotan and Donar bless you on this night,” Běla kindly states the generic sentiment, hoping that such a thing will be enough to wake the old crone from her daze. Strange, Běla thinks again, Ilona is often very talkative and personable.

Ilona’s small, beady eyes suddenly grow wide and lock onto Běla’s blue ones with great intent. Shallowly and pointedly the crone utters, “Wuotan and Donar will not bless you this night, my dear, but remember that the hearts of giants are as large as their size. Trust in that when you cannot trust the Æsir.”

“What do you mean?” Though the fire continues to spark, a cold chill runs down Běla’s spine as she stares at the crone and fear begins to seep into her soul. “Why can I not trust the gods? Are you well, Ilona? You have never spoken like this before.”

The upward curve of Ilona’s crooked spine is the only indication of her breath for she stands as still as the dead before Běla. Fearful, the young woman reaches her other hand toward the crone’s as it still grips her arm and is startled as Ilona shifts and begins to blink her beady eyes. Wearily the crone looks at Běla and then shakes her head, as if she has just woken from her afternoon nap. With the warm smile that Běla is so used to seeing, Ilona happily says, “It is a lovely Yule, my dear, and yet you do not have a cup of my ale in your hands. I shall remedy that.”

Before Běla can protest the crone is off toward the other end of the hall where Kveta is ladling out the ale from a large barrel. Though she is known as the crone of the village, the eldest woman for miles with the knowledge of the gods and the skills in medicine that few others can boast of, Ilona is quick on her feet, reaching Kveta with ease. And though the horn of ale lends a comfortable and familiar ease in Běla, she is still fearfully baffled by Ilona’s strange words. It is with a steady gaze that she watches the old crone mill about the hall, merry in her usual demeanor and no longer possessed as she had appeared before.

Strange, Běla muses silently, very strange indeed. Her gaze falls from the old crone though as her two nephews, Dalibor’s sons, bound up to her and attach to her legs as if they are climbing a tree. In their play she finally finds a sense of merriment, a feeling she knows she should have had burning in her heart long before the sun set so early upon the snowy horizon. As Běla attempts to walk with her nephews still attached to her legs, a feat they always find a thrill in, the crone’s troubling words begin to leave her mind.

The once sizzling flesh of the boar begins to disappear into eager mouths and the barrel of ale begins to diminish like a drought as the longest night of the year wears on. From one corner Běla can hear Ilona weaving one of her tales, the one she tells every year on Yule, that of the wild hunt. She urges her nephews, Dalibor’s sons, to sit beside the old crone so that they might listen to the tale of Wuotan and how he leads his fellow gods on a hunt through the snowy planes of Mittilagart for a great prize.

“They chase down stags as large as mountains and boars the size of boulders,” Ilona professes as a hale of childish laughter accompanies her time worn voice. In equal amusement Běla leans against the wall and listens to the familiar words that she remembers hearing as a child. “Donar will lift his mighty hammer to the sky and strike down a beast with the help of the lightning. Or Wuotan will take his spear and pierce the hide of their hunt when no other weapon would be able to even scratch its hide. Though, on occasion, the gods do not hunt a beast, instead they hunt for the soft flesh of a lovely maiden.”

“To eat her?” a frightened child asks as she pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them. “Why would they want to eat her?”

“They do not eat her, dear, they take her away to Ásegard.”

Though Běla did not know it when she was as small as the children beside her feet, she knows now that such a statement can only mean that the gods kill the woman they take as their prize. Nor does she speak this thought out loud as another child asks, “Holda would not let the gods take a maiden away, wouldn’t she Ilona?”

Ilona’s crooked smile holds a measure of compassion toward the inquiring child and she responds, “She would if she were a part of the hunt. But, as you all know, Holda is a goddess of the hearth and does not stray far from the duties that your own mothers hold.”

Beside her Běla eyes Alexej as he leaves his wife’s side to lean against the wall beside her. Mischief laces her words as she quietly asks, “Do you believe the goddesses do not partake in the wild hunt?”

Alexej shrugs his slight shoulders and pushes aside a strand of his long, blond hair. He responds with an equally hushed tone, “If the goddesses are anything like you, then I do not think so. But what do we really know of the gods?”

“You think too highly of me.”

“Then I should say that Ilona does not think too highly of the goddesses as much as she does the gods.”

Běla’s mouth falls open in shock and she lightly punches her brother’s shoulder. He feigns hurt as she whispers, “Ilona will curse you for that.”

“I’ve had so much of her ale that I do not think I care if she does.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Dalibor asks as he comes up behind to startle the both of them.

“Nothing,” Běla responds with a shake of her head and Alexej simply smirks as he takes another sip of ale.

Though Dalibor eyes the both of them, he relinquishes his need to inquire further. “It grows late; I should get my boys home.”

As Ilona concludes her tale of the wild hunt, Dalibor turns to scoop his sons up into his muscular arms. They protest slightly, though their tired eyes betray them. Therefore, it is with a small huff at his load and a light kiss upon his sister’s brow that Dalibor departs. He is soon accompanied by others, at least those who live near to the great hall of Bohumír. For those who have traveled far to partake in the celebrations, that are slowly beginning to fade just like the embers the surround the large Yule log, blankets are thrown to the ground. Though many simply rest where they sit, as Alexej does in his large chair, too full of food and ale to find a more accommodating position.

Though tired herself, Běla still helps her mother to see that everyone is comfortable before a welcoming slumber falls across the hall and she finds her own small corner to sleep upon. The sweet smell of the pine boughs reaches Běla’s nose again and she smirks once more at her little memory before she curls up with the mountain of blankets atop of her. All too soon though, the hall begins to feel stifling and Běla wonders if it is simply the heat of the hearth and the breaths of a dozen people that has caused a flush to rise to her cheeks. She pulls the blankets away from her sweat soaked body and though she hopes this will bring a slight chill to ease the heat that burns down to her very fingertips, it does not.

Outside she can hear her brother’s hunting dogs barking, a not uncommon occurrence if they have set their minds to the squirrels chattering in the trees. Yet they do not cease like they usually do after a time and concern begins to prickle in Běla’s mind. While she was successful in avoiding the windy cold that has been barricaded by the great doors of the hall all evening, Běla rises with every intention of changing that status. Though it is the middle of the night she does not seem to think anything of it as she pulls on her fur-lined boots and wraps her warmest woolen cloak around her shoulders. With a mighty heave, Běla opens one door wide enough for her to slip out before she jams it shut. She can only hope that she did not rouse anyone as her small feet begin to leave imprints in the snow, leading her away from the hall and into the dark night.

A gust of wind whips across Běla’s face and she shies away from it. With eyes stinging red she wipes away the tears that threaten to spill and brushes aside the long strands of rusted brown hair that have fallen across her cold bitten cheeks. Yet she does not turn back to the comforting warmth of the hall, instead Běla continues to trudge through the snow that rises well above her ankles with each booted step she takes. Alexej and Dalibor’s dogs continue to bark and with her vision no longer obstructed by stinging tears, she makes her way toward them. They are three, each possessing long, thick black coats that cause them to look like shaggy boulders as they remain stationary in their pen. What comes to Běla’s mind first, though, is that she knows these dogs should have been taken into Dalibor’s house hours ago when he arrived back with his sons.

A raven lets out an echoing caw overhead and Běla pauses as the dogs cease their barking instantly upon hearing this haunting noise. Cautiously she takes a step toward them again, watching attentively as the three dogs she has known to bring down a bear, shake in fright as they huddle together. Another gust of wind whips her hair away from her face and she does nothing as a tear streaks down her round cheek. Something strange is afoot, that much Běla can discern as she approaches the dogs and they do not lope up to greet her in their usual enthusiastic manner. Instead they stay as a cowering heap, huddled together against a danger Běla cannot yet see.

A gust of wind threatens to take Běla’s cloak away from her shoulders and she clutches it tightly as it whips about her legs before it settles with the easing of the wintery gust. The raven caws overhead again and the dogs whimper. Too perturbed by their behavior, Běla takes hold of their rope coiled collars and drags them into Dalibor’s home. All is quiet inside and all remains quiet as the dogs quickly jog inward to curl up at the end of her brother’s bed. Both he and his boys remain asleep as Běla quietly shuts the door behind her.

Looking out overhead she catches sight of the raven that caused her brother’s fearless dogs to quake and for a moment she shivers in fear as well. The raven is larger than any she has ever seen before, as mighty as an eagle and so dark that if it were not for the moonlight she would not have seen it. Yet it’s black wings shimmer as it sways on its chosen branch, tilting its massive head away from the forest just beyond and up to the sky. A thousand stars burn as greatly as the candles strewn throughout the holly bushes in the great hall and for a breath Běla forgets the frighteningly large raven perched above her.

Běla’s attention is drawn back to the raven though as she hears another cry. Her mouth hangs open in wonderment while she watches another equally large raven join the first one. Slowly she closes her mouth as another gust of wind chokes her and dries her throat. Her voice is hushed as she asks no one but herself, “Where did you two come from?”

At the sound of her voice the two ravens turn their noble heads towards her and Běla feels a sense of self-consciousness wash over her. They are just birds, she reminds herself, though she is faltering in her conviction. They are indeed just birds yet deep in her soul she knows they are something far more and it is not just their size that causes this belief. Her curiosity takes the better of her and Běla moves toward them. A gasp comes to her throat though and she swiftly ducks as the two ravens launch from their perch to swoop down at her. She feels the tips of their wings brush the top of her head before they soar upward, circling the village and then disappearing into the forest.

An urgent tug pulls at Běla’s navel and she takes a single step toward the woods before she falters. Though her curiosity for them is immense, she reminds herself that her curiosity should not compel her to wander into the woods on this frozen midnight. Therefore, while her feet remain firmly planted her stomach flips about as if she has eaten something unsettling and her face contorts in a straining existential pain. Quietly she whispers to herself, “Something’s wrong.”

Běla is not sure why she says these words, she only knows that they are entirely true as her eyes scan the vast horizon of trees in front of her. Unwittingly a gasp escapes her as she sees a gigantic shadow dart between two trees. Out of the corner of her eye Běla catches sight of another shadow, she is sure of it this time. And despite the reprimanding words of her mother that mill about in the back of her mind, Běla enters the forest with her step crunching the snow underfoot.  

There is a hushed silence that lingers on the trees and across the untouched snow. It is unsettling when there should be a number of noises, even at this time of night. The sound of a fox sneaking in the wake of a pattering rabbit or the twittering of restless birds woken from their slumber by frightened squirrels. There are no such noises though, just the whistling of the wind through trembling branches.

Běla can see a shadow moving from the corner of her eye again and though she turns swiftly it disappears from her sight. Another follows in its wake, from a tree not far from the first and Běla catches more sight this time. It is a monstrous shadow, one as tall and as large as the trees that are gradually swallowing her as she walks further into the woods. She almost wonders if the trees themselves have come to life. They bring the evergreens into their homes on this night to show that even on Yule, the promise of rejuvenation will culminate with the waxing of the sun as they move into spring. Could it be possible that the very trees themselves find life in the midst of the turning sun?

Běla laughs lightly at her own fanaticism. Trees coming to life and ravens as large as eagles? Surely this must all be a dream and she anticipates waking in the hall burrowed under her heavy blankets. However, as she blinks and pinches herself Běla realizes that perhaps there is a chance that she is not asleep. Her forward progress becomes hesitant as she sees more than one shadow at once. Two and then three and then half a dozen streak across her vision and Běla’s heart begins to race in her chest.

A scream threatens to leave her lips as one of the shadows becomes more visible. Thankfully Běla is able to swallow any cry before it is emitted because she knows very well that a single sound from her would be her doom. For before her is a creature Ilona has only ever told about in her stories, she is sure of it. Only a Jötunn would look the way the creature before her does as it pauses and stares directly at her. Běla does not move as the Jötunn tilts its giant head, its scraggly beard and long mane of brown hair bristling slightly as another gust of wind dances through the trees. The icy breeze causes Běla to blink and within that moment the Jötunn disappears.

Frantically Běla looks around her and fearfully she sees that nothing is around. There are no woodland creatures and there are no Jötnar; though she is sure that is the nature of the shadows. It is with a ragged intake of breath that Běla glances over her shoulder, back to her village that is so hard to see through the dense trees. She knows she should retrace her footsteps before snow threatens to fall from the sky and causes her trail to disappear. Yet she freezes faster than a barrel of water left outside during a storm as a sharp whistle pierces the air.

It is not the whistle of the wind, for that Běla knows for sure, it is the whistle created by a man. At least, she hopes, a humanistic creature. If the shadows are Jötnar then she is not entirely confident that the whistle was made by a mortal. She sees a shadow streak across her path again and she knows for certain now that it is a Jötunn for nothing could be built like a mountain, stand as tall as a tree, and appear as if the earth kissed its cheek each morning. Běla attempts to hold her courage and though her frozen hands shake slightly she stands her ground.

Despite her best efforts, however, Běla lets out a slight whimper as she feels the ground beneath her begin to shake. She can no longer see the shadowed Jötnar and for a moment she feels a sense of relief as she hears dogs barking in the distance. Perhaps Dalibor’s dogs woke him after her departure and he has come in search of her, Běla thinks, even as she is sure she hears more than just three dogs howling. Knowing very well that she should run as fast as she can back to the village, even if the braying dogs happen to be Dalibor’s, Běla somehow is unable to move in that direction.  Instead the urging in her gut pulls her deeper into the woods.

“What am I doing?” she quietly bemoans to herself, wondering what is compelling her feet to move away from safety.

The dogs are coming closer and the earth thrums with the steady beat of hooves and feet against the ground. Běla realizes what has entered these woods and it is not just Jötnar, it is a hunting party. The unrelenting urge deep within her drags her toward the sound of the hunters, toward the barking dogs and stomping horses. And then it suddenly all stops. The dogs, the horses, even the shadows that still threaten to lurk along the edge of her eyesight, it all ceases. Yet Běla’s footsteps do not as they continue to crunch in the hard-packed snow.

Běla lets out a mighty scream as she feels large hands wrap around her torso and she is vaulted up into the air. Her cries of terror are only met with laughter though and she wildly looks around, trying to see who has such a firm grip upon her. She is unable to turn though as she is pressed against the chest of her captor, however, she does see others and her next scream flounders on her lips at the sight before her.

“You wrangled a feisty one this year, Donar,” an elderly man, nearly the height of a Jötunn, states. One hand still holds his large spear while the other strokes his long, white beard. There is a twinkle of amusement in his single, beady eye that remind Běla of Ilona’s gaze. His other eye is covered by a rough, leather patch that seems to be secured to his face entirely. There is scaring around the patch, surely an indication of the wretched nature surrounding the loss of his eye. And though his long, blue woolen cloak atop his armor does not bristle in the wind as another sharp gust rips through the trees, it does cause Běla to shut her eyes against it. She hopes beyond all hope that when she opens her eyes again she will be safe and warm in the great hall.

It is to her disappointment that she still finds herself being clutched by massive arms and now the object of attention from not only the blue cloaked man, but an armor clad woman as well. She holds a bemused look upon her soft, oval face and her heart shaped lips turn upward as Běla stutters, “What do you want from me? I have done nothing wrong.”

“Obviously you have done something wrong,” the woman retorts with a small chuckle as she slings her bow over her tangled mousey brown locks so that it rests beside the quiver of arrows across her back. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been caught by Donar here.”

“Is that a slight, Holda?” the man claiming to be Donar asks, though Běla cannot see him and only feels his words vibrate against her back as he continues to hold her close to him. She struggles against his arms, flinging her body every which way possible, yet it is all in vain as he holds her steady.

“She merely means that you are more successful with boars than with women,” the white bearded man states with an air of affection that is laced with a haughty tone.

The grip Donar has on Běla slacks slightly as he reputes, “Some of us would rather hunt a good boar instead of squander our time on helpless maidens.”

With a great jab of her sharp elbow and a mighty heave forward Běla breaks free of Donar’s arms and falls toward a snow drift. Collapsing into the cold wetness, she cannot recall a time she was happier to ensconce herself in the powdery whiteness. Above her head she sees a large weapon fly through the air and she waits for it to pass before she rises to face her captors. Before she was hard pressed to believe the names they have called each other, however, as she looks up at them her beliefs falter for in Donar’s hand is a large hammer that sparks and flickers with lightning.

They are not as tall as the Jötnar shadows, though they are a great deal larger than her brothers who she has always known to be the tallest men in the village. Donar, Holda, those are all names spoken by Ilona on long winter nights when her soothing voice is accompanied by the crackling of a fire as she tells the stories of the gods. And while she has always believed in the power of the gods, she never believed they would be real enough to stand in front of her as they do now.

“I am no helpless maiden,” Běla states bravely even as she staggers slightly in the snow drift. “I am not a thing to be hunted.”

“Exactly,” Donar states with a nod of his head and the hammer in his hand flickers again. His long, blond tresses fall toward his square jaw, some braided and tied away to show more of his handsome, though battle scarred, face. “I say we abandon this maiden and pursue better game, Wuotan.”

“Nonsense,” Wuotan, the elder man states, his beady eye never leaving Běla. “We shall keep this maiden and hunt for a boar as well. The Jötnar are as unsatisfied with a human find as you are, Donar.”

Běla hardly blinks as she listens to these gods converse and she is not surprised as the elderly one eyed god is given the name of Wuotan. She had already placed his name long before hearing it, for no other could be the wisest god in Ásegard. Just as no other but the strong, blond warrior could be the god of thunder, Donar. She is not even surprised that the goddess of the hearth, Holda wears armor and a warm, black cloak over her shoulders, just as her fellow hunters. She never entirely believed Ilona when she claimed the goddess is as docile as her mother and she dares to flicker a smile towards the stoic looking goddess.

In return Holda looks down at Běla with a kindness that instantly puts the mortal at ease. Gently she says to the others, though she continues to look at Běla, “Let the girl go and we can seek out a boar. Humans do not feed the hungry when there is a feast to be had after an energetic hunt.”

“They can,” says a Jötunn as he steps forth from the darkness of the forest. Without a doubt he is a giant as he stands a head taller than the three gods beside him. He has the very appearance of the forest upon him with the pine needles that stick to his scraggly, ashen brown hair and with the dirt that covers the crevices of his massive hands. Yet he wears a deep green cloak not unlike those of the gods’ and holds a bow that resembles Holda’s, though it is a great deal longer. He gazes down at Běla with sharp green eyes that flash mischievously and with a crooked grin that brings a flush to his pale face.

Perhaps part of her still believes that she is in a dream, therefore Běla finds a sense of unhindered boldness as she replies to the Jötunn, “I would assume that my thin bones would not be as satisfying as the flesh of a boar. Unless you speak of a different sort of hunger for flesh that can accompany a hunt?”

Wuotan and Donar let out mighty laughs that shake the snow from the trees and Holda smirks at the Jötunn who flushes slightly at Běla’s words. Brushing the fallen snow from her hair and shoulders, Běla stares defiantly at the gods in front of her, determined to urge for her life instead of being a victim of their wintery hunt.

“Your question makes it sound like you speak from experience, little one,” the Jötunn recovers and retorts, despite the other god’s laughter. “Yet your slight form makes me wonder if you are even capable of pulling back the string of a bow in order to participate in a hunt.”

“You would be surprised as the strength of small creatures.”

Holda chuckles merrily and says to the Jötunn, “Wuotan was right, Donar did catch a feisty one. I regret my words; it will be a shame to let her go.”

“I have not earned my place to join you in the realm eternal,” Běla responds honestly to the goddess, bowing her head slightly in reverence. “Though I also pray that such a day does not come too swiftly, especially by your hands.”

“We do not kill the innocent,” Wuotan states, his gruff voice filled with wisdom both said and unsaid.

“Even him?” Běla nods towards the green eyed Jötunn as he continues to stare down at her, his expression now masked and unreadable to her.

“Rübezahl is only cruel if you are cruel to him,” Holda encourages as she glances at the Jötunn. “Otherwise he is quite good natured when it comes to humans.”

“Do not speak as if I am not here,” Rübezahl states with a slight sneer, his thin nose turning upward. He then turns to Běla and asks, “Where is your home so that we might return you there?”

“Holda is right then, concerning your kindness,” Běla states warmly even as her fingers continue to grow cold with another gust of cold wind pulling at her cloak and not theirs.

Rübezahl shakes his head, his firm jaw clenching slightly, before he glances at Holda. “I would not want to give her that satisfaction.”

“Yet you will give me the satisfaction of seeing my home again? Even on this night of your wild hunt?”

“Do you wish to be claimed?”

Běla shakes her head this time. “I wish only to go home if you would be so kind as to permit it.”

“Well said,” Wuotan comments, causing Běla to flush slightly for no greater words could be spoken to a mortal from the wise Wuotan. “Though a woman of your wit would do well in Ásegard.”

“As kind as your words are, great Wuotan, I would rather see my home again knowing that I will find a home in Ásegard eventually.”

The gods before her nod their heads and to Běla’s surprise, Rübezahl says, “I will escort her while you continue the hunt. I will join you momentarily.”

“Excellent,” Donar exclaims as he grips his hammer in his mighty hands, excitement racing across his handsome features. “Let us go forth.”

Wuotan raises his spear slightly and brings it down to touch the earth lightly, yet it is enough to make the ground ripple beneath Běla’s feet. She sways slightly, though she remains on her feet, and she watches the largest horses she has ever seen stride up to their riders. None are as fearsome as the eight legged Sleipnir, Wuotan’s steed, who’s coat is such a light form of grey that he nearly blends into the snow entirely. Affectionately Wuotan rubs his soft nose before he lunges astride the wondrous horse and it stamps its many legs in anticipation.

With Holda and Donar astride their own horses, bearing only four legs instead of eight, the gods ride forth with the whistles for the dogs flying through the wind. Though Běla would like nothing more than to collapse in relief that she has not become the victim of their wild hunt, she knows that she is not clear of their clutches just yet as she turns to face Rübezahl. He stands beside his horse that bears a coat as black as the ravens who had enticed her into these very woods.

“Shall we?” he prompts politely, extending his hand out to Běla. Though she is hesitant, she still places her hand in his and finds herself laughing as his giant hand encompasses her small one entirely. He looks at her with some confusion. “What is so funny?”

“You’re just…well, I am not used to being in the presence of a Jötunn.”

“Do you come across Jötnar often?”

At this Běla laughs again and shakes her head. “I cannot say I have, though the company thus far has proven to be interesting.”

“Interesting? Is that not what mortals say when they are incapable of formulating a definitive opinion?”

“You are astute for a giant.”

Rübezahl nods toward the group of gods who have now disappeared into the trees and replies, “They spend a great deal of time in Ásegard. They are not on Mittilagart as much as I am.”

“Is that why you help mortals?” Běla asks as Rübezahl lifts her with ease onto the back of his horse. Though her breath catches in her throat as he lifts her high into the air, she is more surprised by the ease she feels with his hands against her. With a shake of her head Běla adjusts so that she sits astride just below the horse’s neck, allowing space for Rübezahl to sit behind her. “Is that why you offered to help me?”

“I enjoy helping mortals to maintain the order on Mittilagart.”

“And what order are you trying to maintain by seeing to my safe return?”

Rübezahl runs a hand through his tangled hair, pulling it out as his fingers interlace with a web of knots, and then turns to hop astride his horse. Settling in behind Běla he answers, his deep voice hushed as it presses close to her ear, “Perhaps my purposes are my own and nothing more.”

Běla is about to turn about in order to question him further when Rübezahl suddenly kicks his horse forward and the words are taken away from her. The sharp sting of cold entering her lungs is too great for her to do anything more than clutch the mane of Rübezahl’s horse as he weaves them between the trees. While the stars still shine brightly overhead, it feels to Běla that she has been in these woods forever as she points Rübezahl in the direction her village and he follows her instructions.

At the edge of the woods Rübezahl halts his horse and dismounts. Běla jumps down on her own before she sees Rübezahl’s helping hand and with a slight shrug she states, “Apologies, I am used to getting by on my own.”

“Are you alone in this village then?” Rübezahl asks with honest curiosity as they linger in the cold.

“No, I have my parents and my two brothers, who have their own families.”

“It will be nice to come home to them then.”

Běla tilts her head curiously and states, “I have heard of you before, Rübezahl. From the tales an old woman in our village tells. You have a wife awaiting you at home do you not?”

Though not spoken as much as the pantheon of gods in Ásegard, Ilona still speaks of the Jötnar native to their mountains, Rübezahl being one of them. Yet he shakes his scraggly head sadly and scratches at his thin beard before he responds, “I have a wife no more. She was mortal, like yourself, and though I tried to please her she did not enjoy the life I have in the mountains and in the forest.”

“She left?”

Rübezahl nods in affirmation as he crosses his arms over his wide chest and his eyes fall downward so as not to look at her empathetic ones. Though she would like to cup her hand across his jaw to show her desire to comfort, Běla is incapable of reaching that high as the top of her head only rises as tall as the middle of his abdomen. Therefore, she does her best as she rests her hand upon his folded arms. His head jerks upward with the touch of her hand and he takes a step back.

Wondering if she had done something wrong, Běla states, “I did not mean…”

Before she can complete her thought, Rübezahl turns toward ease once more, saying, “Of course not, it is I who…”

“Has not felt touch for a time?”

“Nor the wit of a sultry tongue.”

Běla’s smile is wide, shinning from ear to ear. “Sultry? I would say I have a sharp tongue and nothing more.”

“I find it hard to believe that nothing more graces your tongue.”

There is something in his words that causes Běla to pause and look at Rübezahl with intrigue. A crow caws from the branches above them before flying toward the village and for a moment Běla is at least grateful that it is not the monstrous ravens once again. Yet, with the flight of the crow, Běla’s eyes drift to the village and she is unable to look at Rübezahl as she mumbles, “I suppose I should leave you now, so that you might rejoin the hunt.”

“I could stay for a time.”

“What? Here? I doubt you would want to stay in a village such as mine.”

Though Rübezahl is startled by her blatant honesty, he none the less responds openly, “It appears to be like any other village in this region, good and wholesome. What could possibly be wrong with it.”

 Běla pauses for a moment, considering his words, before she responds, her answer a breath of a sigh, “Nothing. There is nothing wrong with my village, nor the people in it.”

“And yet your words lack heart.”

“It is home, is that not enough?” Běla is unsure if her question is meant for the Jötunn or for herself. Another contemplative sigh escapes her lips.

“I do not know, that is for you to decide.”

Běla lets forth a merry laugh, startling Rübezahl again, though to his curious enjoyment this time. Smiling up at Rübezahl’s gigantic form Běla can only respond, “I suppose I will find in time. Thank you, Rübezahl, for seeing me safely to my home.”

Without needing an equal farewell, Běla turns away from the Jötunn to return to the hall she knows to be far warmer than the cold she has resided in for too long. Her small foot only leaves a single print in the untouched snow though before she stops upon hearing Rübezahl ask, “What is your name?”

With her face filled with bemused wonderment, Běla glances over her shoulder. Her rusted brown hair whips in the wind around her face as she responds, “So unfair that I know your name and you know not mine.”

Rübezahl dares not take a step forward for a step such as his would overshadow hers instantly, yet his desire to feel her close again causes him to lean forward on his toes. “Please, fair maiden, I beseech you for your name.”

“Fair maiden? I thought I was worthy only to accompany the meat of a boar, a more proper hunting catch.”

Rübezahl’s pale face alights, his angular cheeks flushing as he looks down at his feet in bashfulness. “How long must your sharp tongue berate me before I say something that does not offend you?”

“That depends.” Her eyebrow raises in conniving interest. “My name is Běla. What do you have to say about that?”

“Běla?” Rübezahl flushes and his green eyes fall toward his feet again. “Beautiful, like the whiteness of the snow around us.”

“I have never found my name that beautiful; nor the snow I suppose. However, I thank you for your compliment.”

Rübezahl’s eyes remain downcast as he softly mutters, his voice like a trickle of water in a cave, “Your name is beautiful, yes, but that is not all I spoke of concerning beauty.”

“Strange that I find you looking down all the time,” Běla says softly, her voice as light as the snow that drifts in the wind, “and yet I have not been able to hold your gaze for some time.”

“I may be a friend to humans, but I regret to report that my interaction has been lacking for some years.”

Běla takes a daring step forward and catches Rübezahl’s bright eyes with her close proximity. “And why avoid humans? I hear we are lovely things. We’re even hunted on occasion, so greatly do the gods desire our presence.”

Rübezahl’s laughter is as great as that of the gods and the snow shakes from the trees. From the village they can hear dogs barking and the sleepy questions of those still heavily induced by ale and food. With feigned insistency Běla urges a moment of silence before Rübezahl dares to whisper, “Humans are lovely things. I have kept you too long from your loved ones who might have woken just now to find your absence. You should go.”

“Should I?” Běla asks whimsically, once again unsure if she is asking Rübezahl this question or herself.

“It is home? Is it not?”

“Yes, but…” A thought comes to Běla’s mind and she boldly inquires, “Does it unnerve you that I, as a human, do not stand as tall as you?”

Though he has grown used to being startled by her questions and comments, Rübezahl is instant in his answer concerning this latest startling inquiry. With equal boldness he responds, “No, not at all. You remind me of the fairies in the woods, though I know them to be even smaller than you.”

“My mother used to say that I am like a fairy to make me feel better as a child, at least when my brothers teased me of my height.”

As Běla falls silent upon this confession, Rübezahl finds himself compelled to ask, “Why do you ask these questions of yours?”

“Because the nature of your answers will determine my actions.”

Rübezahl’s thick eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head in confusion. “Though I do not like being in possession of such power, I am curious as to what actions are you posing to take based on my answers?”

“They are simple,” Běla responds without hesitation in her soft voice. “I either return to my sleepy little village over there and lead the life I am meant to lead. As my mother has and her mother before her. Or I can leave this all behind and request that I join you in the wide world beyond. If you would have me that is.”

The stars burn brightly overhead, causing Běla’s eyes to shine all the brighter as she waits upon Rübezahl’s response. Yet he is choked for words as her brash boldness has not only taken all thoughts from his mind, but has also caused his heart to leap into his throat. With a great gulp he finally manages to mumble, “Why would you want to join me? I am a Jötunn and hardly suitable company for a human.”

“And I could say that I am human and hardly suitable company for a Jötunn.” Běla pauses for a moment, her eyes wandering slightly toward the woods again, before she looks upon Rübezahl with an openly hopeful gaze. “Is it enough to simply say that it is not a matter of thought that leads me to this idea of leaving all that I have known, it is a matter of heart. Unexplainable and yet entirely expected. Is that enough of an answer to allow you to consider letting me join you? Again, if you will have me.”

“I know not where I am to go after this night.”

“That’s the problem at hand, is it not? Because neither do I.”

Rübezahl’s laugh is not as loud as it was before, but it still manages to set his face alight again. Yet it is to Běla’s horror that he turns away and catches hold of his horse who wandered back into the woods during their conversation. With a single hop he is astride the beast again and Běla gradually feels her heart sink downward to her frozen feet. Blinking back threatening tears she tries to console her heart by reminding herself that the warmth of the hall awaits her in the hazy distance.

Běla’s sigh of relief is like the first breath of spring upon the rainy meadows as she looks out of the corner of her eye and sees Rübezahl’s hand outstretched for her. Her small hand is gripped entirely by his own gigantic one and Běla feels a warmth that she would have never felt in the hall as he launches her upward. Nestled with her back against Rübezahl’s mighty chest, Běla does not look back to her village as he urges his horse forward. Instead her eyes rise toward the stars above as they burn brightly across the wide expanse before them that seems so impossibly endless.


End file.
